


Shawn Spencer is Nobody's McMurphy

by huckleberryzenon



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, God - Freeform, Hurt Shawn Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Marie Antoinette references ofc, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest is also referenced, Ugh, Whole Lotta Rosie and burping is relevant too, also a return of my evil lil OC, and so thus is this, and that idea was in my goblin brain, evidently not, for what will be soon seen to be obvious reasons, he should have a therapist that doesn't want to kill him, i know nothing about motorcycles :/, i thought i had purged this from my system, i'll post the second part soon, it's like halfway done, reference to Serenity, so here is a lil sequel, this is actually fairly Gus and Shawn centric, this is an official fanfic relapse, we just been knew that Shawn handles trauma weirdly, you know?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huckleberryzenon/pseuds/huckleberryzenon
Summary: Sequel to "Shawn Spencer is Nobody's Agatha."Shawn is totally fine after the whole "dude-tried-to-saw-open-his-head" thing. Totally. Obviously. And he can definitely handle having to confront the evil doctor-slash-serial-killer who tried to kill him. After all, what could go wrong?
Relationships: Burton "Gus" Guster & Shawn Spencer, Carlton Lassiter & Shawn Spencer, Henry Spencer & Shawn Spencer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Shawn Spencer is Nobody's McMurphy

**Author's Note:**

> a fanfic relapse of the highest order :/

They didn’t talk about Kessler. 

It was unspoken, the not-talking-about-Kessler thing. Gus found this pretty weird, because with Shawn,  _ everything  _ was a talking thing. 

Well, except for when his mom left. 

And except for when  _ Shawn _ left. 

But everything else was usually fair game—more than fair game. Any other crazy event from their lives was more than available for joke-territory. Except for everything that happened with Kessler, which, like the ten years that Shawn had been gone from Gus’ life, Shawn remained strangely tight-lipped about, except for the occasional reference that Shawn never elaborated on. 

Which was why Shawn was acting all squirrely and twitchy, just at hearing Kessler’s name, Gus assumed (but not in the usual twitchy and squirrely way—this was tenser, more panic-filled, his friend’s green eyes darting left and right, as if trying and failing to locate some spectral threat. It was only when Shawn acted like this—when Shawn was  _ nervous _ —that Gus could even begin to believe their bluff about Shawn being psychic. Something about him—his drawn, serious face, the sudden intensity of his focus, so different from Shawn’s typically scattered and amusing high-energy—was eerily supernatural. Gus didn’t like it.). 

“Jules, what do you mean?” Gus interrupted, deciding that asking for clarification would draw their friends’ attention from Shawn’s nerves. Jules and the Chief were fairly intuitive, after all. He didn’t think Lassiter would notice right away if Shawn was being weird, but Gus knew as soon as he did, he’d likely make some comment that would snap Shawn out of his nerves, but there was also a fair chance that Shawn would burst into tears, instead (Gus didn’t actually think that would happen—Shawn only cried at things like Taco Bell’s Baja Blast machine being broken, or when Leo DiCaprio drowns to save Kate Winslet, not at Lassies, but still, he had the urge to try and shield his friend from close inspection). 

Jules stepped forward, her eyes large and serious, her jaw set firmly, though her hand twitched towards Shawn’s, as if she wanted to grab it. 

“We need your help getting information from Kessler, Shawn,” she said, her eyes darting to confirm with the Chief, who nodded at her encouragingly from behind her desk. “You guys know we’ve reopened some cold cases from when Kessler was living in Santa Barbara, when he was working with your mom at UCSB. We’ve been trying to see if any cases fit Kessler’s MO, if we could wrap anything up, grant some peace to the victim's families.”

“Or prosecute any of Kessler’s accomplices,” Lassiter added gruffly, leaning with his arms crossed against the wall by the door behind Juliet. Lassiter’s eyes, like Gus’ own—like everyone’s in the Chief’s office, it seemed—were locked warily on Shawn’s jittering form, seated upright in the chair beside Gus. So much for drawing attention away from his friend’s out-of-character behavior. 

“We actually didn’t know that, Jules,” Shawn snapped, his voice nearly high-pitched into a whine (but, again, not the  _ normal  _ Shawn whine—not exaggerated or purposefully tantrum-like to get a laugh out of Jules or Gus, but genuinely irritated). Shawn’s hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly. “It would’ve been nice to have the heads up, though.” 

Shawn’s gaze shifted to the Chief, who regarded him calmly, her arms folded over her chest. 

“I thought it for the best to not involve you, Mr. Spencer,” Vick said, her voice softer than Gus had expected from their typically sharp-tongued boss. “There is a major conflict of interest here—you were nearly a victim of a suspected serial killer. I’m not entirely confident it was the right decision to inform you, even now.” Vick’s disapproving eyes lifted above Shawn, to meet Lassiter’s. “In fact, I think we’d better end this meeting here. I’m sorry to make you gentlemen come all the way down here this morning. Clearly this is a sensitive matter, Mr. Spencer, and I should have—”

Shawn let out a bark of high-pitched laughter (only dogs would be able to hear him, soon, Gus thought. That was always Shawn’s stress response). “Sensitive? Please, Chief. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s been months since all that Kessler stuff. And people almost kill me, like, every week. Nothing new, there.” Shawn’s face twitched into a half-watt version of his usual smirk. “I’m more than fine to be here. Let me help.”

And that was it, the root of what Gus couldn’t quite figure out—what Shawn was saying would, normally be true. Shawn, for whatever reason—because he was who he was, or, maybe, because his father was who his father was—Shawn really was perfectly fine any other time they were in danger from a criminal. In fact, he dealt a little  _ too  _ well with it all, but Gus had learned to stop asking questions like that about Shawn a long time ago. That was simply a part of his personality. 

But something about Kessler really did bother him,  _ get  _ to him, in a way that none of those other physical threats to his life did. Which meant that Shawn had to have been rattled by something else about the case—and it had been bothering Gus for six months that he couldn’t figure out what, exactly. The most information Shawn had shared on the matter had come right after they had stopped Kessler, when Shawn had frozen up, in a way Gus had only seen him do a handful of times in their lives. By the time they’d gotten to the hospital, Shawn had shifted into “making jokes and ignoring direct questions mode,” which they had been in for the past half a year. Shawn hadn’t even let Gus come to Kessler’s trial. 

Vick still looked doubtful. “Mr. Spencer—”

“Chief,” Shawn repeated calmly and seriously, yet another two major red flags, in Gus’ eyes. He watched his friend’s face carefully. “I’m fine. Really. I, just—food poisoning, from me and Gus’ breakfast. Weird eggs, or something, right, Gus?”

Shawn didn’t bother looking at Gus to ensure that he would back up his lie, his gaze still on the Chief. Shawn trusted that he would cover for him, even though they had  _ donuts  _ for breakfast, not eggs, and even though Gus  _ knew  _ that Shawn wasn’t going to handle this well and when he couldn’t handle things, Shawn did things like jump on a motorcycle and disappear for ten years—

“Right, dude?” Shawn’s voice snapped. He was looking at Gus now.

Gus blinked at his friend. “Right. Mad weird eggs.”

Vick’s eyes flicked between the two of them, her eyes as all-knowing as usual, lingering on Gus, and he felt as if she could read his lie on his face, the same way he always felt when he lied to Vick for Shawn. 

But then, as always, it seems he gets away with it, because Vick sighs, and waves a hand at Lassiter. “Very well, Mr. Spencer, if you’re sure. Go ahead, Detective.”

“We’ve had some interviews with Kessler,” Lassiter said, not bothering to move from his position near the door, as if he wanted to have the quickest exit plan possible. “He’s not at Lompoc, you know, because of the whole insanity plea. He’s at the Santa Barbara Psychiatric Institute, so it’s been a bitch to get in there to talk to him. But…”

Shawn tilted his head backwards against the back of his chair to look at Lassiter, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, despite his near-success at one of his typical antics. “But, he says he’s only going to talk to me?” Shawn straightened. “Alright, yeah. Of course. I’ll talk to him.” He looked at Juliet, then. Jules smiled in response. “It’ll help, right?”

“Oh, Shawn, we really need him to give us anything, really,” Jules gushed. “And we’ll be with you, of course—”

“So you’re officially hired for these cold cases, Mr. Spencer,” Vick interrupted. “Detective O’Hara, why don’t you take Mr. Spencer to your desk to begin prepping him. You have quite a few cases to sort through. Maybe your third eye could lend a hand in narrowing down cases, as well as your...relationship with Mr. Kessler. You’ll promise me that you’ll tread carefully here, Shawn,” Vick added as Shawn began to stand to follow Juliet. Shawn paused his movement for a moment, before straightening out, and nodding. 

“I promise, Chief,” Shawn said solemnly, and damn if Gus didn’t know a lie from his best friend when he heard one. 

Gus automatically began to stand to follow Shawn and Juliet out, but was surprised when a hand stopped him, and was doubly surprised when that hand was Lassie’s. 

“Hang on a moment, Guster,” Lassie said, gently pushing Gus back into his seat. “The Chief needs some paperwork from you. Might as well get it done while Spencer’s busy.”

Gus felt his brows pinch together, confusion flooding him. Usually, Vick didn’t make him do any paperwork until after a case was wrapped up. 

Vick looked just as confused as Gus felt, for a moment, before her usually inscrutable expression returned. “That’s right. Thank you for the reminder, Detective Lassiter.”

Shawn, standing near the now-open door, looked between the three people still in the office, before shrugging. “Come get me at Jules’ desk when you’re done, Gus,” he said, and followed Jules out of the office. 

Lassiter walked quickly to close the door behind Shawn as he left, before he turned abruptly back around. 

“Is there something you need, Carlton?” Vick asked. “I don’t have any paperwork for Gus.”

Lassie nodded curtly. “Yes. I think it’s time you recommended Spencer to see the department counselor.”

Gus sputtered a laugh. “Shawn’s been able to talk around a counselor since we were seven. He got one to  _ cry  _ about the therapist’s parents’ divorce once. It’s, like, his third-most proud accomplishment. Did you forget that his mom is a psychologist?”

“Not to mention that it was during a psych eval that Kessler first targeted him,” Vick said, frowning. “I can’t imagine Shawn agreeing to meet with anyone without pulling any of his usual tricks, though I agree it might be time to recommend some form of therapeutic treatment. He looked—”

“—Like he’s going to crack up, even talking about Kessler,” Lassiter finished. “That’s what I’m worried about. We need him to get information from Kessler—we’ve worn out our other interrogation tactics, and you know that I’d rather urinate on Ronald Reagan’s grave than admit to  _ needing  _ Spencer, but we do. But I was there for the Kessler fiasco. Spencer was... shaken up. And I don’t want him to start blubbering in the middle of our interrogation tomorrow, so I concluded that the best thing to do would be to organize a counselor response ahead of time. Ensure Spencer’s wellbeing, or...whatever. Chief.” Lassiter pulled at the sleeves of his suit, evidently uncomfortable with so much discussion of emotion. 

“Listen, it’s sweet—sort of—that you’re both concerned about Shawn,” Gus interjected. “I am too. But I don’t really understand why I’m here.”

“Because the only way to get the idiot to do anything is if you’re on board with it, too,” Lassie snapped. 

Gus stood, deciding that it was about time to go check on Shawn, and maybe get some smoothies and try to talk out some feelings. “If you think Shawn listens to anything that I say, Lassie, you haven’t been paying much attention.” 

He looked between Vick and Lassie. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. It was a promise. He would ensure that that psychopath didn’t hurt his friend, himself.

* * *

Shawn’s fingers won’t stay still.

He wanted them to, but they won’t. They keep fluttering, making a strange sort of beat against the side of his leg. He wished he had something to fiddle with, that he could pour some of his nervous energy into, like a kettle into a teacup. 

But he did not. Instead, he only had this metallic, gleaming table in a terrifyingly blank, white, and void-like room, reminding him of some movie about the afterlife that he couldn’t quite recall the name of, or the plot. 

God, he wished he could remember the name of the movie—or any movie, for that matter, asides from  _ One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,  _ which he couldn’t seem to drive from his head _.  _ Thinking about Nurse Ratched, about how she lobotomized Jack Nicholson, about a doctor who knew his mother, a doctor who tried to lobotomize him, about a doctor who knew all his secrets, who was smarter than Shawn, who knew all of Shawn’s tricks and prepared for them so that no one (almost no one) (someone did) could help him—

“Shawn,” Gus said softly, and oh, God, his brown eyes pleading with Shawn, to  _ just tell me what’s the matter, already, dude—  _ “We can leave. We  _ should  _ leave, right, Jules?”

Gus turned around to look at Jules and Lassie, who flanked either side of the door, awaiting Kessler’s arrival. And Gus had been trying to drag whatever the hell was wrong with Shawn out of him since leaving the station yesterday, but Shawn wasn’t going to give him anything, wasn’t going to leave now, no, because nothing was wrong with him. Sure, Shawn was petrified of Kessler in a way that he really couldn’t explain, except that it was all the nightmares rolled into one— _ he could destroy Psych he could destroy Mom he could destroy _ everything  _ at once _ —except that Shawn never doubted that he could talk himself out of anything, except him, that Kessler came so close to killing Gus, so close, so scarily close—

“Of course we can leave,” Jules said instantly, and Shawn felt a rush of affection for her, for so immediately placing his needs over the cases’ at hand, over all the lives they could change and help put to rest. “Shawn, are you okay to be here?”

And God, had he broken his funny bone, or something? Why couldn’t he crack a joke, lighten everyone’s load? Certainly nobody wanted to be in the waiting room for a serial killer. They didn’t need Shawn moping around, creating even more for them to worry about.

“I’m a-okay, Jules, really,” Shawn forced himself to say, adopting a cheery cadence that sounded false even to his own ears. “One more quick review before Doctor Know arrives: so I  _ shouldn’t  _ ask him about his opinions on the French Revolution?”

Gus, Jules, and Lassie all blinked at him, as if he had just suddenly began burping his way through AC/DC’s “Whole Lotta Rosie” (he knew what the expressions of people who witnessed that looked like firsthand, because he had done it once in a bar in Tupelo, from which he was immediately removed). 

Shawn rocked forward and clenched his jittery fingers around the bench beneath him and Gus. “C’mon, guys. French Revolution. Guillotine. Let them eat cake. Off with their heads. Remember?”

His friends were still quiet, watching him with the same eerie trepidation as they had yesterday, as if they expected him to start breaking chairs, or start spreading feces on the walls, or, generally, like he had been diagnosed with incurable King Kong Transformation Disease (KKTD, though they could work on the acronym) and that they expected him to go full ape-man any second. It made Shawn hate the attention, which was ridiculous, because he  _ loved  _ attention. 

“Stop being an idiot, Spencer,” Lassiter finally mumbled, and Shawn could have kissed him, for the small semblance of normalcy Lassie’s insult granted. 

“Now, Lassie, you know that’s biologically imp—”

“Shawn! I’m so pleased to see you!”

Shawn’s heart stopped, completely. How did he miss the sound of the door opening? It was a big door, too, handle of the right side, swipe card access, he would’ve heard the click of the lock opening—

And suddenly, the little old man who could destroy Shawn’s whole life was sitting before him, handcuffed to the table. 

Kessler’s resemblance to Richard Attenborough in  _ Jurassic Park  _ was less convincing without the man’s eccentric suit and hat. Now, in his white scrubs, he looked, somehow, appropriately threatening—as if he was in his natural habitat. Shawn noticed that he was still wearing his Yale ring, which was still turning his finger slightly green.

“They let you wear jewelry in this joint?” Shawn asked. “I assumed you’d have thrown that ring away once everyone knew the truth. But I guess you are more of a Gollum than a Frodo.”

Kessler threw his head back and laughed. Shawn couldn’t hide his flinch away from the noise, and he felt Gus tense next to him.

“Oh Shawn,” Kessler said, shaking his head, the wide grin never leaving his face. “I missed that sparkling wit of yours. I told you I would.”

(Before Shawn, floating above him, that wide grin, telling him how he was going to kill him, the pressure of the saw against his forehead, beads of blood welling and Shawn couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even move—)

Shawn forced himself to sit back, to feign relaxation. He was not bothered. He was never bothered. He could keep it light. Keep it funny. “But you never did get to see where it came from, did you, Doctor Know?” 

Shawn leaned forward again, conspiratorially. “Is that why you wanted to talk to me? Because it bothers you, doesn’t it? That you’ll never know.”

Kessler’s grin faded a few degrees, but didn’t disappear. “Tell me, Shawn, does the scar still itch? I’m so pleased at how nicely it healed. I bet it makes for a great—what do the young things call it?—pickup tactic. Helpful for wooing the ladies.” He glanced up at Juliet, and winked jovially. “Not that you ever needed help in that department, though, did you, Shawn?”

Shawn breathed slowly out his nose. Blinked once. Blinked twice. Lassie had made a similar joke, once—but it was different coming from the person who had scarred him. “It makes me one step closer to being the Harrison Ford I always knew I could be,” Shawn said. He raised an eyebrow. “That’s enough catchup, don’t you think, Doctor? We have some questions that you’ve promised to answer.”

Wordlessly, Lassie stepped forward to place four files—the four cases that he and Juliet had narrowed down, from 1977 to 1982, that fit Kessler’s MO. Gifted individuals—one a psychic medium, two with synesthesia, another with echoic memory—who were wrongfully slated for a lobotomy procedure. Secret, overnight emergency operation. No formal autopsy done. Hospitals that Kessler didn’t work at, but in the Santa Barbara area—he could’ve taken a friend’s shift, could’ve forged a signature, could’ve done a whole litany of things. But they didn’t have the proof. They needed him for that.

“Detective Lassiter!” Kessler exclaimed, nearly jumping in his seat. “My goodness, you were so much quieter than you usually are, I hadn’t realized you were here!” Kessler looked between Lassie and Shawn giddily. “Why, it’s a reunion of sorts, isn’t it? Killer, victim, and savior—what an odd triangle we are!”

“Would-be,” Gus corrected. 

Kessler’s eyes sharpened on Gus for the first time, and it made Shawn want to jump in front of his friend, to scream _ look at me, look at me instead! _ “That’s right, Mr. Guster,” Kessler drawled. “Would-be killer, is right. Shawn _ is  _ my one that got away. I hope to remedy that someday.”

Shawn felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Watch yourself, Kessler,” Lassie snarled. 

Kessler smiled benevolently. “Oh, don’t get all in a fuss for nothing. It’s nothing Shawn doesn’t already know. He’s known since he was a little boy.” Shawn’s heart pounded, and his breath seemed to come faster, despite his active attempts to slow it down. “He has a very special gift. I’ve been very open about my desire to understand it.”

“Shawn’s gift is spiritual,” Jules said boldly, confidently, trustingly (in him) (who lied to her everyday) (who didn’t deserve her confidence). “It’s invisible. You can’t find it inside of his head.”

Kessler nodded at Juliet, though his eyes, awash with a terrible sort of amusement, remained locked with Shawn’s own.  _ He knows, he knows, he knows, so why won’t he tell?  _ “Thank you for your correction, Detective O’Hara. Shawn’s gift  _ is  _ spiritual. But I have long believed, and my research has thus far proven, there to be a unique property to the minds of those who have a  _ third eye _ , so to speak.”

“Your research? Like what you did to Rachel Simpson?” Shawn asked, flipping open the first manilla folder in front of him. He pulled out a picture of Simpson’s high school senior portrait, and presented it to Kessler, pushing it in front of him. “Remember her? Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, 1979? She was a twenty-three-year-old psychic medium, and came in for a sprained neck from a car accident. She left with no cerebellum.” Shawn flipped open the next folder. “Or how about David Arrowsmith, 1980? A synesthesiac getting treated for depression, who got an emergency lobotomy order.” He flipped open the next folder. “And the same for Arthur Kent, the next year. He had synaesthesia, too.” He flipped open the last folder. “Or what about Margie Backwater? Echoic memory? At San Miguel’s Memorial? She was only eight years old. And she was there to get her  _ tonsils  _ out.” Shawn slipped the photo of Margie in front of Kessler. “You got sloppy with Margie, Kessler. And then you started acting suspicious at work—”

“How  _ is  _ your mother, Shawn—”

“And then you were noticed, and then you had to run,” Shawn finished determinedly. “And the rest, they say, is history. But you couldn’t have pulled it off all alone. So who did you pull it off with?”

“You were a very sweet boy, you know, Shawn,” Kessler remarked, as if Shawn hadn’t asked a question at all. “I remember, when we met, you gave me your pet rock. His name was also Guster, I believe.” He nodded at Gus. “You told me that you knew that doctors were good at taking care of things, and that you weren’t. Do you remember that? I bought you peppermint ice cream.”

“No,” Shawn said hollowly. No, he did not remember that. No, he did not want to remember that, if it had happened at all.

“That’s what I brought Margie, too, after her tonsils were taken out. Best way to keep children quiet, I find, if you anticipate them giving you trouble.”

And, God. Shawn’s insides felt like they were closing in, compressing him into a weird Picasso-person. He couldn’t remember if he had taken a breath or not, couldn’t remember the last time he was filled with this much raw panic. 

Kessler was still smiling. “Yes, yes, always ice cream, for children. Adults are much more difficult.” He pushed forward, towards Shawn, and Shawn felt eclipsed, blotted out in Kessler’s shadow. “Are you  _ quite  _ sure you don’t remember our afternoon together, Shawn?”

Shawn was in the spiral, there was no stopping it, and there were no major clues to pull him out of it. Shawn remembered everything—that was something Shawn  _ knew _ , fundamentally, about himself. If he did not remember Kessler, it was for a reason--he was a child, a toddler. A good enough reason. He barely remembered anything from that time, even with his eidetic memory. But what if—what if he didn’t remember anything because—because Kessler had done something? The peppermint ice cream? That was how he had drugged Margie, he had just admitted it, in so many words. But if he had drugged Shawn as a child, what had he done? Shawn was still alive, after all. It didn’t make sense. Something about the story—Shawn, Kessler, peppermint ice cream, pet rock, Gus, drugs, lobotomy—didn’t fit, didn’t sit right, Shawn just had to figure out what—

“Shawn,” a voice said, hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him out of the spiral.

Shawn blinked, looking at the hand on his shoulder. Gus’ hand. He glanced up at his friend, whose face was gravely worried. 

And that was it. The hand. The friend. That didn’t fit. 

There was a knock on the door behind him. Lassie signalling that their time was up to the orderlies. “That’s a wrap, Kessler,” Lassie said, his voice sounding strange. 

Two oafish-looking orderlies filed in, and un-handcuffed Kessler from the table, ready to escort him out.   
“I hope to see you again soon, Shawn,” Kessler said. “And think about what I said. Perhaps it’ll help your little investigation, after all.”

Shawn hadn’t even realized he’d been staring at Gus’ face until he looked away, to Kessler’s figure in the doorway. 

“Next time you bullshit me, Kessler,” Shawn said, feeling his old bravado filling in his voice, granting him some feeling of three dimensionality that he’d been missing for the past day, “leave out the details. Easier for me to pick out.”

Kessler chuckled, and then he was gone, and Shawn could breathe again. 

Shawn exhaled heavily, and ran a hand over his face, then knotted his fingers in his hair. 

Gus’ arms came around him, then, squeezing him tightly, and Shawn barely had to time wrap his own arms around his friend before Gus released him and seized him by the shoulders, his eyes wide. 

“You’re okay, Shawn,” Gus said hurriedly. “That was really intense, but listen, okay, whatever happened when you were a kid, it wasn’t your fault, and—”

Shawn forced a laugh and pulled away. “Gus, buddy, nothing happened when I was a kid. He just said that to mess with me.”

“To mess with you?” Jules asked, her forehead creased with worry. “Sorry, Shawn, but I think you might be in the denial stage of—”

“No, really. He was testing me, trying to figure out what I knew,” Shawn said, looking between his two friends. 

“How?” Lassie butted in. Even Lassie looked deeply uncomfortable—Shawn wasn’t sure if he was comforted to know that that interaction had left his friends feeling as slimy as it did to him. Like,  _ Ghostbusters _ ’ ectoplasm-level slimy. 

Shawn flashed a grin at Lassie, and then at Gus. “It was the pet rock story. Gus,  _ obviously  _ I would never name a rock after you. If I was going to name anything after you, Gus, it’d be a tree, or even a boat. The only pet rock I’ve ever had was named Thing. Kessler made that part up—which goes to show he was only spinning us half-truths, at the very least.”

“But…” Lassiter began.

“But?”

“But what about the peppermint ice cream?” Lassiter asked in a rush. His normally stoic features squirmed uncomfortably, embarrassed by what Shawn presumed Lassie felt was a deeply personal question.

Shawn glanced between his three friends. “It’s Kessler’s revenge plot. He’s pissed—more than pissed—that he didn’t get to—well, you know. ‘See’ my gift. So he’s decided the next best thing is to do whatever it takes to mess with my head.”

He shifted his attention to Lassie. “The peppermint ice cream was a real clue, I think. We can assume that  _ is  _ how he drugged Margie Backwater. And that might’ve been how he drugged Rachel Simpson, and Arrowsmith, and Dent, though that might not really matter.” He grinned. “I’m sensing that Kessler  _ did  _ have help back in the ‘80s--and that it was a nurse.”

Jules tilted her head towards the manila folders, still spread open on the table. “The victims were at three different hospitals—Santa Barbara Cottage, Goleta Valley, and San Miguel. We could look through the hospitals’ old employment records, see if there was a nurse who worked at all three during the late ‘70s and early ‘80s?”

Shawn leapt to his feet, feeling some of his case-solving energy begin to return to him, overpowering all his panic from a few minutes prior. “Perfect, Jules! Gus and I will come with you to Santa Barbara Cottage to check it out.”

Lassie was still frowning at him, which wasn’t unusual, but Shawn didn’t quite have the patience to turn that frown upside down today. “Spencer—”

Lassie was interrupted by the whirring of the swipe-card access opening the door to reveal an eldery, blue-haired woman in scrubs in the doorway, holding eight board games (five of which were different versions of Monopoly, which flummoxed Shawn, as how many times could you really market that as a new game before patients got so bored they began exhibiting KKTD symptoms?). 

The woman peaked around her stack, and jumped in surprise. Gus, ever the gentleman, stood from the table to take the games from her. “My goodness! I’m sorry, detectives, I thought you had left already. It’s game-time after lunch in this room.”

“No need to apologize, my good game woman. We were just leaving. Gus? Jules?” Shawn said hurriedly, and before any of his friends responded, he walked quickly out of the room, beelining for the parking lot.

* * *

“Shawn,” Gus said warningly, as he turned the car off. 

But Shawn was already hopping out of the passenger side of the Blueberry, skipping across the hospital parking lot to where Lassie was parking his Crown Vic.

If Gus thought that Shawn was going to talk about Kessler, he might as well just sit around and wait for the _Serenity_ sequel, because that wasn’t going to happen, not while Kessler was still trying to tear Shawn’s life apart. He was scared that if he tried to explain what was wrong—even to Gus—that it would somehow activate Shawn’s dormant fight-or-flight response, that acknowledging all his fears and his panic would make it all too real, and that he would run again, and lose another ten years wandering around without any reason to stop, when he had finally found so many good reasons to stay. 

He could feel Gus’ and Juliet’s worry creeping higher and higher, and there was going to be a confrontation soon, he could feel it. He wanted to fix it for them, to show them that he was really okay—but he knew that the more he play-acted as his normal self, the more they seemed to see through it (through  _ him _ ), making the big neon sign that read “Something is wrong with Shawn!” glow even brighter, or so it felt. 

“Lassie-face!” Shawn called out as the head detective closed his car door. He leaned casually to rest his chin on the roof of the car, smiling benevolently at Jules as she closed the passenger door. “Excited to scope some nurses?” He put his fingers to his temple. “I’m already sensing that the nurse probably still works here, and that she’s foxy as hell. Oh, and that she misses candy stripe uniforms. Quite desperately, in fact.”

Lassiter growled, his head swiveling around the parking lot, as if scanning for rogue killer nurses. “And there’s no chance the spirits gave you a name, or an age, or any actually helpful information, is there?”

Shawn smiled sweetly. “All in good time, Lassie. All in good time.”

Lassiter’s head stopped its swiveling, his eyes narrowing as he saw something in the distance. Shawn whirled around to follow his gaze.

His father’s truck was parked next to the Blueberry. His father was talking to Gus—whose head whipped back-and-forth between Shawn and his dad, as if anxious about their inevitable confrontation—by the rear of the cars.

Shawn felt a flash of irritation (of betrayal? Relief?). He began to stride across the parking lot, Lassie and Juliet exchanging a glance before trailing after him. “Gus! How could you do this  _ again _ ?”

Gus scowled at him. “Don’t pin this on me, son. I didn’t call him.”

“I did,” Lassie said from behind him. 

Shawn whirled around, his mouth falling open in surprise. “Lassie, I know we aren’t exactly the best of friends, but still, to call my  _ dad _ —”

“Shawn,” his father said in a low warning tone from behind him.

Lassie only raised an eyebrow. “You need to talk to him,” he said simply. 

Shawn’s brows came together in confusion. Lassie usually detested his father’s involvement in cases as much as Shawn did. Why bring him in, unless it was about—

“You need a break from this case, Spencer,” Lassie continued. “You said it yourself, that Kessler only agreed to talk so that he could get to you. And your part in this worked—we have a lead that we didn’t before. If the Chief knew about the threats he made today, she would take you off this case immediately. Let’s avoid the whole scene.”

“He’s right, Shawn,” Juliet said. “I’m worried about you. This case is getting to you—and that makes a lot of sense, given everything you’ve been through. You should really just head home. Go watch a  _ M.A.S.H.  _ rerun, or something. Let us do our job.”

Shawn knew they were probably right—that he should step back from the case, that Kessler _was_ affecting him emotionally. But, still—talking to his father didn’t seem like a great alternative, especially when he knew that his father would never understand his reluctance to discuss his feelings about what happened (how could he tell him that he couldn’t talk about it because talking made it real?), and was sure to berate him for even agreeing to meet with Kessler in the first place.   
And not even to mention that, like a bloodhound catching a scent, his mind had already latched onto fitting all the pieces of the case together, and he was annoyed to have another unexpected obstacle in the way of solving it. 

But, judging by the expressions of everyone around him—even Gus—there was no way he was making it into that hospital (at least, not at the moment, but Shawn had a jackal mode, too, sometimes). 

He sighed dramatically, and looked at Juliet. “You’ll call me if you find anyone who fits the bill?”

Jules gave him a small smile. “Of course, Shawn.”

Shawn nodded once, before finally turning to face his father. 

“Dad,” he began, bracing himself for the inevitable lecture. 

But his father, to Shawn’s surprise, didn’t immediately begin his usual angry ramblings about Shawn’s stupidity. Instead, he placed a hand gently on Shawn’s shoulder. “Let’s head home, son,” he said quietly.

And somehow, Shawn knew that this car ride was going to be infinitely more painful than usual.

* * *

“We did the right thing,” O’Hara said for the millionth time as they stepped out of the hospital records room, sounding like she was trying to convince herself of the truth of her words.

Lassiter sighed heavily, shifting the box of old employment records in his arms. “Yes, O’Hara, we did the right thing. This case isn’t good for Spencer, simple as that. He needs space.”

His partner nodded, though the quirk of her mouth told him that the matter still wasn’t quite resolved in her mind. 

Juliet didn’t speak again until they were halfway across the Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital parking lot. “He’s really rattled,” she said slowly. “I didn’t know Shawn  _ could _ be rattled.”

“Or that he would be so terrible at hiding it,” Lassiter said absentmindedly as he unlocked the car and opened the back driver’s side door to put down the box of hospital records. “God knows he’s had enough acting experience, with all his ridiculous  _ visions _ .” Lassiter emphasized the last word, wanting the quotation marks around the word to be heavily implied, since his hands weren’t available to provide them. 

He closed the door and got into the driver’s seat, waiting until his partner had buckled before reversing out of the parking spot. “Goleta Valley next?” he asked.

He saw Juliet nod out of the corner of his eye, her expression still troubled. 

“But why  _ this _ case?” she asked. “I mean, for anybody else, I would understand the trauma response—but Shawn hasn’t reacted to  _ any  _ of our other cases like this, even when his life was arguably in more danger.”

Lassiter was quiet for a few moments as he drove. “Well, it’s very personal, for Kessler and for Spencer. Kessler’s made it clear that he’s been a potential threat to Shawn and his mother for his entire life, essentially. Maybe the threat to his family is striking a nerve that none of us knew existed. Proof Spencer’s a human being, after all.” 

Not that Lassiter had ever doubted that Spencer existed firmly in this realm. Lassiter would still love to see Spencer’s smug fake-psychic “I’m-smarter-than-you” smirk wiped right off his face, but only if Lassiter could prove him wrong himself—the right way. Not like what happened—what’s still happening—with Kessler. The man was the only person that Lassiter had successfully make the psychic detective  _ afraid _ —and Lassiter, reluctant as he was to admit it, had trouble erasing from his mind the image of Spencer, half out of his mind with whatever drug Kessler had given him, head wound pouring blood down his forehead and cheek, his cuffed wrist dangling, his eyes wide with panic. That he saw that same wild look in Spencer’s eyes at the Psychiatric Institute again, facing Kessler. And Lassiter could admit that he was worried, and that if he had the power to prevent Spencer from looking that way again, then he was going to use it. 

But Juliet was frowning, even still. “Yes, I think that’s a part of it. Shawn’s very protective of his mom.” She paused. “But there’s something else going on. Something else that we don’t know.”

Lassiter grunted, recognizing that the turn for Goleta Valley Hospital was fast approaching. “I don’t know why that keeps surprising you about Spencer.”

“It doesn’t. But this time...I’m worried that him not telling us”—though Juliet said “us,” Lassiter heard what she really meant, which was “me”—“is going to get him hurt.”

Lassiter said nothing as he parked the car once more. 

“Should we go in?” he asked in an effort to shift the subject away from psychoanalyzing Spencer, something he felt he had already devoted a great deal of time to that day.

Juliet sighed. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The first few minutes in the car were deadly quiet, which Shawn knew from childhood was a bad sign. 

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore. “You know, Dad, I totally forgot. I promised I’d take Gus to the dentist today, and you know how he gets when they don’t give him a sticker—”

“Tell me what happened today,” his father said quietly, cutting him off. 

Shawn sighed, leaning an elbow on the ledge of the open window, staring at the sunny scenery outside. “Didn’t Lassie already tell you?”

“No,” his father said. “He said that they asked you to talk to Kessler, and that you seemed upset afterwards. That’s all.”

He turned to look at his father sharply. “Listen, Dad, don’t you ever get tired of our whole—” Shawn dropped his voice’s register in imitation of his dad—”‘Shawn, don’t do that, only idiots do that,’ ‘I’m gunna do it anyway,’ song-and-dance? Because I do, and I really don’t have the energy to give you a hard time right now.”

His dad glanced at him briefly as he turned the car. “Shawn, I’m not going to yell at you. You obviously already know that you did something stupid. I just want to check in with you, make sure you’re okay.”

Shawn paused. That was the second time today he’d been caught off-guard by someone. He must be getting rusty, or something. “Oh,” he said. 

His dad continued talking. “And I know that you never want to talk about Kessler, and I know that’s because it scares you—”

“Oh, do you?”

“And that’s okay, to be scared, Shawn, that’s  _ good, _ that’s  _ normal,  _ that means that you finally give a shit—about your mother, about Psych, about yourself.” His father laughed. “Honestly, I’m relieved. This is the first time that I’m not worried that you’re going to do something thoughtless and stupid that’ll get you killed in a long, long time.” 

Shawn’s old contrarian instinct—always so biting, so mean, so automatic with his father, and he never knew how to stop it—reared its head. “I’ve always given a shit, Dad. I’ve always cared. You just mistake fun for carelessness.”

But his father didn’t rise to the bait as Shawn had assumed he would, as he always did. “I know you care, Shawn. But I’m not sure if  _ you’ve  _ known, really know, how much you care about your life. If you would let yourself stop and take what’s coming at you.” He paused, looking at Shawn for a long moment, so long that Shawn panicked about the changing of the stoplight, until he realized that they were parked outside of his apartment. He hadn’t even noticed when they had stopped moving. 

“Don’t let Kessler ruin this for you,” his father said. “Now, are you going to invite me in for a beer?”

Shawn blinked at his father, something inside of him cracking as his father articulated exactly what Shawn was allowing Kessler to do. 

He had to end this, to re-stake his claim over his own life.

Shawn sprung out of his father’s truck, energy flooding his veins as a plan began to form in his mind (well, if not a plan, at least a step towards making himself feel less like he had hit his own self-destruct button). “Sorry, Dad. I told you, I promised Gus I’d take him to the dentist. But I’ll swing by the house later, and we’ll talk, okay?”

“No, Shawn, wait—” his father protested.

But Shawn had already slammed the door shut, and was racing towards his apartment door; he needed the keys to his bike. 

* * *

“Now, tell me, young lady,” Shawn said to the elderly blue-haired nurse behind the desk he was leaning on, his chin resting on fists, “does that beehive of yours attract a lot of honey? Oh, no need to answer that. I already know the answer is yes.” Shawn grinned widely.

“Young man,” the nurse said in the tell-tale patiently-impatient tone of a harassed healthcare worker, completely bypassing Shawn’s flirtation attempts. “I know you were in here earlier with the police, but as I’ve already told you, there’s no way you can see Arnold Kessler. Visiting hours are long over, and in any case, your earlier visit was an exception to a very strict no-visitor policy for that patient.” 

She looked up from her computer, pausing her furious typing. As if suddenly spotting something, she half-stood, looking beyond Shawn towards the waiting room doors. “And is that your motorbike parked out front? That can’t be parked there.”

“I completely understand, madame,” Shawn said sweetly, thinking it better to brush by that last question quickly. “But surely there must be some sort of exemption you could make. As you mentioned already, I’m here on behalf of the police.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, widening his eyes innocently. “And Doctor Kessler has some very, very important information about several unsolved cases, and time is of the essence in this matter. I would only need five minutes of his time.”

Shawn smiled at her once again, pushing into it every ounce of his boyish charm (Jules would scoff, but Shawn  _ did  _ have boyish charm, he could be a regular pre-rehab Robert Downy Jr. when he needed to be). 

The nurse stared at him for half a moment, before sighing in defeat. “Five minutes,” she said wearily, wagging her pointer finger at Shawn. “That’s all.”

Shawn jumped for joy, clapping. “Thank you, thank you, foxy lady! I’m  _ sure  _ you’re not secretly a killer.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, before turning back to her computer. “Just call me Babs, honey. Let me check his schedule, see what room he’s in,” she said, typing away, her rings clacking against the keyboard.

_ Rings, _ nudged the back of Shawn’s mind. The nurse had quite a few of them, including one on her pinky. It brought back the detail Shawn had noticed earlier that day: that Kessler still wore his fake-Yale ring.

“Are patients permitted to keep their jewelry while they’re here?” Shawn asked.

Babs’ eyes flicked up to Shawn briefly, before returning to the screen. “Not usually, especially not if the jewelry could potentially endanger them or another patient. But we make an exception, sometimes. Why?”

“No reason,” Shawn said. “Just thinking about birthday present ideas for Doctor Kessler.”

“Well, I’d keep away from jewelry, generally. Hard to guess what people will like, and what they’ll hate.” Babs stood, her hands on her hips. “Alright, sweetie. You’re just in time for dinner—if we hurry, I can find you two a quiet table in the cafeteria. I’ll walk you down, but remember—five minutes, that’s all I can give you.”

Shawn nodded eagerly. He wished he’d bargained for more time, but five minutes was probably as much time as he had before Lassie and Jules—or, worse, Gus and his father—tracked him here. Shawn had waited in his apartment until his father’s truck had pulled away, so he knew that his dad hadn’t followed him to the Santa Barbara Psychiatric Institute. But he knew that his dad would figure him out, probably sooner rather than later. Maybe he should have parked the bike somewhere more inconspicuous, but he figured it was better to save time than bother hiding evidence of his presence. 

The panic that Shawn had felt earlier didn’t start creeping back in until he and Babs had reached the cafeteria, when Shawn saw Kessler’s back sitting at a table in the far corner, all alone. He tried to suppress it, but it only grew as they stepped closer.

“Doctor Kessler,” Babs said sweetly, stooping to tap Kessler on the shoulder. “You have another visitor.”

Kessler turned around, grinning widely. “Why, Shawn, what a delight! I must say I’m a bit surprised to see you again so soon. I didn’t expect you for another two days, at least.”

And Shawn hadn’t even gotten started yet, and Kessler was once more twisting his brain, making him feel out of control and dumb, like he was playing right into Kessler’s hands. 

He shook himself. He wasn’t playing into anyone’s hands, Shawn reminded himself. That’s why he was here. He was in control.

“Well, I’ve heard the meatloaf here is divine,” Shawn said, swinging his legs over the bench opposite Kessler. “Figured I should check it out for myself.”

“Five minutes, boys,” Babs said once more. “I’ll be back to collect you, Mr. Spencer.” She wandered away to the far corner of the cafeteria, stopping to whisper to one of her co-workers, before leaving the cafeteria.

“No little friends joining you?” Kessler asked innocently. “Poor Shawn, all alone. You should have learned your lesson from last time about refusing help from your friends. It ends badly, my boy. No man is a failure who has friends, et cetera.” When Shawn didn’t respond, he continued. “I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions about our afternoon together, so long ago? Nothing untowards happened, I can assure you.”

“I thought I asked you to stop bullshitting me, Doctor?” Shawn asked, his voice low and serious. “I know you made that up—you told me at the Psych office that you begged my mother to test me, and that she refused—and she never would have left me alone with you. Not to mention that I didn’t have a pet rock until I was seven, and his name was obviously Thing, not Gus. You want to get in my head, but it’s not going to work.”

Kessler raised a bushy eyebrow at Shawn, still smiling. “Clever, clever, Shawn. Then why are you here? You must know I’ll not tell you any more about the patients I’ve studied, nor will you know if my information is falsified or not.”

Shawn leaned forward slightly, conscious still of someone possibly over-hearing them. “I want to know why you haven’t told anyone. About me.”

Kessler chortled. “You expected me to reveal the truths of your gifts? And what, drive you far away from Santa Barbara? Why on earth would I do that, when it’s such fun to watch you squirm under the pressure of potential discovery, to watch your mind at work, trying to riddle me out?”

A cold shiver went down Shawn’s spine. “You know, Doctor, this obsession with me is great for my ego and all, but I really don’t understand it.”

“Oh, Shawn, what does it matter, so long as we’re having fun?” Kessler asked. 

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be in the negative, but, once more, with feeling: this is not fun,” Shawn said, his eyes flicking to the door of the cafeteria, expecting Babs’ return any second. 

Kessler eyed him, his blue eyes glinting with humor. “Whatever you say. So, tell me: what secrets have you uncovered? Have you pinned down my partner in crime, not that I will ever confirm or deny the existence of such a person?”

“Not yet,” Shawn answered. “But it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think?”

Kessler seemed to ponder this for a moment, the sparkle in his eye never quite disappearing. “Yes. It nearly always is a matter of time, in life, isn’t it?”

Kessler’s hand cupped his chin, and the Yale ring on his left hand’s little finger glinted in the cafeteria’s bleak overhead lighting. 

“Seriously, dude, what is it about this ring?” Shawn asked, his patience snapping—mostly at himself, for not being able to fit the pieces together on his own. “I know you didn’t actually go there—you went to the University of Iowa’s med school, I looked it up. So what’s it supposed to mean?”

A shadow seemed to pass over Kessler’s face, then. “Things in one’s life need not be true in order to have real significance, Shawn,” he said solemnly. “I thought you would have known that.” 

Shawn tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the man before him. He was missing something, he knew it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn spotted the door open, and Babs walked through it. She locked eyes with him, waving her hand in a  _ come here _ gesture, hre blue beehive wobbling with the movement. Shawn nodded.

Kessler’s face brightened, a smile returning to his face as he watched Shawn stand. “Come back soon, Shawn. We’ll miss you.”

_ We. _ Shawn’s brain caught on Kessler’s wording, his mind running through the implications as he followed Babs out of the cafeteria.

“Babs, can I ask you another favor?” Shawn asked, jogging forward a few steps to walk with her. 

She sighed. “You’re a lot of work, aren’t you, Mr. Spencer?”

Shawn grinned, remembering the cell phone on her desk earlier that day, opened to a text conversation. “I’m afraid so. Not as much trouble as your second-born was, though. Can’t believe he misspelled your name. That’ll be tattooed on his heart  _ forever _ .”

Babs gave him a strange look. “Yes, Bobby has always been a handful. Spent a fortune on tutors for him growing up, and for nothin’, apparently. But how did you—?”

“The spirits told me,” Shawn said seriously.

Babs laughed. “What do you need?”

“A full list of all the employees here at the Institute, if you can,” Shawn said. 

A wrinkle formed between Babs’ eyebrows. “Why would you need something like that?”

“It’s critical to the investigation,” Shawn answered.

Babs’ shook her head, moving behind her desk as they once again reached the lobby. “I’ll print out a list of employees for you before you go.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Babs, and as sweet a summer candy as one, as well,” Shawn said, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. He was  _ close.  _

* * *

Shawn took the papers from Babs automatically, his brain power devoted to assembling all the different pieces in his mind.   
He was close. He could tell he was close. He had to call Gus. 

He ran a cursory glance over the list of names before tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans, fumbling for his cell phone from his front pocket with his other hand.

Gus picked up on the first ring. “Shawn, where the hell are you? I’ve been knocking on your door for fifteen minutes.”

Shawn put his friend on speaker to answer his question while he shoved on his helmet and got on his bike. “Dude, obviously I had to talk to Kessler again. And guess what? I got a list of—”

“ _ Shawn _ ! You talked to that nutjob  _ alone _ ? Are you crazy? He threatened to kill you multiple times. And that was just  _ today _ . He could’ve ripped your brain right out of your skull right at the table, like that girl who bit off people’s tongues in  _ Dead End. _ ”

“Oh, please, Gus, don’t be an obscure French horror film enthusiast,” Shawn scoffed as he peeled out of the Institute’s parking lot, craning his neck and shifting his helmet slightly to keep his phone position near his ear. “I was totally fine, it’s not like he could have done anything there.” A weight dropped in his stomach as he remembered the list of names in his back pocket. “Okay, well, on second thought, there  _ was _ actually something he could’ve done there.”

“Stop playing, Shawn—” Gus interrupted.

“Okay, okay, Gus, let me finish—” Shawn cut himself off, cursing as he swerved around a braking Honda. 

“Ohmygod, are you driving right now?”

“Gus, dude, listen, Babs gave me the list of employees at the Institute, and I’m pretty sure that if we compare it with—”

“No way, Shawn, uh-uh. When I ask you to stop playing, I really do mean,  _ stop playing _ . Put your damn phone away and tell me the rest when you get here,” Gus said.

“But Gus—” Shawn whined, but his friend had already hung up. 

Grumbling, Shawn stuffed his phone into the right pocket of his jacket, keeping his eye on the changing stoplight at the intersection a few hundred feet ahead, watching the illumination shift from yellow to red.

Shawn began to ease on the brake. The bike didn’t respond to his pressure, however, still moving at the same speed. Alarmed, Shawn slammed the bike’s brakes—nothing happened—he cut the speed but he wouldn’t have enough time, enough space to slow down—someone had tampered with his brakes, his mind concluded, the only reasonable explanation, the bike had passed the inspection Gus had made him get two weeks ago—his helmet still slightly askew from his phone call with Gus—he should probably bail off the bike—

Shawn sailed through the intersection, leaving a cacophony of blaring car horns in his wake, a red pickup truck lurching to a stop just before T-boning the bike. 

Shawn swerved, shouting apologies, his eyes scanning for a grassy knoll where he could safely leap off his bike, distracting him from the Sedan that swerved around the still-honking pickup truck and struck Shawn, sending him flying away into the darkness. 


End file.
